by S. J. Madill
Zura grunted, watching Four-Thirteen's impassive face. "Four-Thirteen, have there been any other such 'charitable' missions? Any other ships flying refugees to distant colonies anywhere else?"
"No, Mahasa. None that we are aware of."
Four-Thirteen — and Palani intelligence in general — always shied away from speculation or analysis. Or, at least, they shied away from sharing their speculation and analysis from those who would find it useful. Sensing there was unlikely to be anything more to gain, Zura changed the subject. "What of the girl?"
Four-Thirteen shook his head. Was it disappointment she saw in his eyes? With the results, or with her continued asking? "With regret, Mahasa, no further progress on the hybrid child's situation. We have exhausted all known relatives within six generations of separation. None have heard of the child or her adoptive parents, nor are they in a situation to adopt a child. Of course, there is the usual human racism as well. The mere concept of a hybrid is offensive to some of them."
"Understood," said Zura. Yaella had been in school for five days so far. Zura respected the girl's initiative, and her eagerness to learn, but she'd been growing quiet. The girl deserved better. "What are the other options?"
"There are few, Mahasa. The human system for dealing with orphans is unsophisticated and overwhelmed. The girl would be placed in an orphanage. Upon reaching the human age of legal adulthood — eighteen — she would be required to leave the orphanage. For her safety, her best option would then become a refugee camp. Otherwise, she would be immediately indigent and homeless upon leaving the orphanage."
Zura sighed. "And there are millions of humans in the same situation."
Four-Thirteen nodded. "Yes, Mahasa. The human refugee problem shows no sign of being resolved. There is renewed discussion in political circles about sterilising the refugees in the camps — voluntarily or involuntarily — to prevent a new generation of children being born as refugees."
"While our people continue to wither away, for lack of children."
"So it seems, Mahasa."
"Very well," said Zura, sitting up straight. "I have nothing else. If—"
"If I may," interrupted Four-Thirteen, the holographic agent lifting a hand.
"Yes?"
"Just a reminder, Mahasa. The latest ten-day report will be sent tomorrow." His eyes were watching hers, though he remained expressionless.
"Thank you, Four-Thirteen. I…"
Zura trailed off, as a gem on her desktop began to blink. "I am being summoned. Thank you Four-Thirteen, that is all."
"The honour is to serve, Mahasa," said the agent, before his holographic form collapsed on itself in a burst of light.
Zura pressed the blinking gem on her desktop. "Yes?"
The voice sounded tinny, its words clipped. The caller was speaking from inside a helmet. "Mahasa, this is Nathal, stationed outside your residence."
"Go ahead."
"Mahasa, a group of humans is approaching. Both councillors, the Major, and three others. They are unarmed."
Zura raised an eyebrow. Not the angry mob she'd been expecting, not yet anyway. The humans probably had a complaint, or some issue they were unable to resolve on their own. "Very well, Nathal. Remain camouflaged. I am on my way."
"Yes, Mahasa."
Zura pushed back her chair and stood up. Once again, the humans came to her with their problems. When they weren't complaining about her interference, they were asking her to interfere. It was as if they only really wanted her there so they'd have someone to blame for their problems.
She left her office, straightening her uniform as she approached the front door.
The small group of humans was near the bottom of the stairs when she emerged from her residence. Several of them, including the councillors, seemed startled by her sudden appearance.
Zura stopped at the top of the stairs, clasping her hands behind her back, while the humans gathered in a semicircle at the bottom of the stairs. They wanted something. Even though she was taller than most of them, she decided to keep them looking up at her. Humans had a lot of built-in programming about social cues, especially when it came to hierarchies. It was easy enough to use.
"Yes?" she said aloud, her voice carrying. "What is it?"
Roche put his hand on the shoulder of the human man next to him. The young human — barely an adult, Zura guessed — flinched at Roche's touch. His hands were in his pockets, his shoulders pulled tight.
"We've started patrolling," said the Major, "keeping an eye on the surrounding area. This young man—" he patted the man on the shoulder again, eliciting another flinch, "— was caught in the seaside villa to the north of here, helping himself to some of your peoples' things."
Councillor Miller stepped forward. "General, we realise we haven't really worked out the issues surrounding law enforcement. While this is a human colony, we're in Palani space and under your jurisdiction. We're hoping we can come to an agreeable solution—"
"Maybe without killing everyone," muttered Lang. The young man stared at Lang, his eyes widening. "But—" he began.
Zura shifted her feet, her boots scraping on the steel decking. It was enough to get the young human's attention. They'd brought one of their own to her, unbidden. Perhaps they thought their daily movements were being tracked. Perhaps they feared what would happen if they concealed their young man's crime from her and she found out. "What is your name?" she asked.
The young face turned toward her. It was one of the colonists who had come on the freighter. "Rowan," he said, swallowing. "Rowan Tilley."
"You arrived on the freighter, did you not, Mister Tilley?"
Rowan gave a nervous nod "Yes, General."
"Mister Tilley, this may be a human colony, but it is still a Palani grave world. And you were caught looting."
"But—"
"This is the second time I consider you to have trespassed, Mister Tilley. What did I say to everyone back on Corana?"
"No," stammered Rowan, raising his hands in front of him. "It's not fair! Don't do this. Please!"
"I thought I was very clear, Mister Tilley. If anyone was caught looting a Palani grave world again, they would die."
"No!" he cried, tears welling in his eyes. He took a step back, but Roche held him by the shoulder. "I just needed money so I could get off of here! It's not fair!"
"General," protested Councillor Miller. "This is excessive. You can't—"
Zura held up one hand, quieting Miller. "Councillor, don't tell me what I can't do." She turned toward Rowan. "Mister Tilley," she said quietly. "Tell me why it isn't fair. Tell me why it would be 'fair' for you to ignore the law."
Rowan shrugged off the Major's hand, and took a stumbling step forward. "It isn't fair," he repeated, his voice cracking. With a trembling hand, he pointed toward the freighter in the distance. "We're still living in that damned ship! Still eating replicated food and drinking recycled piss. These people—" he turned slowly around, sweeping his hand toward the row of residences, "—will barely speak to us. We're second-class to them. We're the 'new people', or the 'freighter people'." He shook his head. "General, we spent everything we had — everything — to come here. We gave up everything we'd ever known, because we wanted a better life, not a worse life. Please, General! We want—"
Zura raised her hand again. "That will do, Mister Tilley." Her eyes went to Miller and Lang. "Councillors? What is being done?"
Miller rocked her head from side to side. "Well, there have been some challenges—"
"That's not what I asked, Councillor. What is being done? Are more housing units on the way?"
Miller looked toward Lang as she spoke. "We processed all the paperwork the day they arrived. We're waiting to hear back from the Colonial Office." She smoothed her hair behind her ear, avoiding Zura's eyes.
Zura said nothing; she just stood in silence, watching the councillors, allowing the silence to grow longer.
Lang frowned. "We'll start chasing them," he muttered.
"There isn't enough," sputtered Miller. "You brought these extra people here, and now—"
"Blame me if you want," said Zura. She kept her voice calm and even. "But it doesn't solve your problems. Mister Tilley? I agree, it is unfair that burdens are not shared. My soldiers eat Palani military rations, but they will share. Every second day, they will eat your replicated food, in exchange for a ration pack. Perhaps someone will come to like binva."
In the distance, something caught Zura's eye. One of the colonists — a middle-aged man — was walking up the path toward them. With him was Yaella, trudging along with her head lowered.
"I expect better from the colonists," said Zura. Her eyes went to the councillors. "And I expect more leadership out of you two. There will be no 'new' colonists or 'old' colonists. Everyone is an equal citizen of New Fraser. I will accept no other labels. And you," she said, her eyes back on Tilley. "I expect you — and all colonists — to live and work together and obey the law. If you have a problem, talk to the councillors. If they don't help, come here and talk to me."
"Yes, General," said a relieved-looking Tilley. "Thank you."
"But," added Zura, "if you are caught looting the graves of my people again, I will kill you myself. Do you understand?"
Rowan's face had paled, and he swallowed before answering. "Yes, General. I understand."
"Good," said Zura, waving one hand at the semicircle of humans. "Now go. It appears I have something else to attend to."
The group began to break up, stepping away as Yaella and the human man reached the bottom of the stairs. "Mister Kowarchuk?" said Zura, recognising the human man. "The school teacher?"
The bearded man gave a short bow; Yaella looked away, standing awkwardly with her feet crossed.
"Yes, General. Good day. I've brought Yaella home from school. There was a problem."
"I see," said Zura. She glanced at Yaella, who wouldn't look at her. "Yaella, go inside. You and I will talk after I have spoken to Mister Kowarchuk."
Still not meeting her gaze, Yaella slumped past, going listlessly up the steps and inside. Zura watched until the door closed behind her.
The schoolteacher cleared his throat. "There was a fight outside the school, General. It appears that Yaella punched another girl."
Zura descended the steps to stand next to Kowarchuk. "What caused this?"
To his credit, Kowarchuk didn't look away. "It seems, General, that the other girl called Yaella some sort of racial slur. Even so, we don't tolerate violence in the school, General."
Zura nodded. "I understand, Mister Kowarchuk. Is the other child harmed?"
The teacher gave a brief shake of his head. "No, General. Just a bruise, and perhaps some wounded pride. She's being taken home as well, and her parents will be told. We don't tolerate racism in the school, either."
"Very well. Thank you, Mister Kowarchuk. I will deal with this."
Kowarchuk took a step back, bowing again. "Thank you, General. I hope…" He paused a moment, as if considering his words. "I hope Yaella will keep coming to school. She's a very bright girl."
"She will be there tomorrow. Good day, Mister Kowarchuk."
"Good day, General."
As the schoolteacher started back down the path, Zura looked up the steps toward the front door of her residence. Facing the Horlan had been less complicated than facing a twelve-year-old girl.
Sighing, Zura started up the steps.
Chapter Thirty
When Zura entered the apartment, Yaella was nowhere to be seen. The door to the storage area behind the kitchen was shut tight, and there were sounds from within.
Pulling out one of the chairs from the kitchen table, she sat down. It occurred to her that she'd never sat at the kitchen table before. She always took her meals at her desk, or sometimes sitting in bed, like she used to do aboard ship. The ship had dining areas — 'messes', the humans aptly called them — for officers and crew, but senior officers ate alone. The more senior, the more alone.
It was pleasant enough here, and well-lit: the first rays of the late afternoon sun had begun to peek in through the kitchen windows at the back of the apartment. The apartment's layout reflected the human custom of the kitchen being the centre of the home. Communal food preparation and eating was a time to be social. Not unlike Palani families, she supposed. Sitting down for a meal with her foster parents was a distant memory, and memories of being with her biologic parents had faded into nothingness.
"Yaella," she said aloud. The sounds from the storage area stopped. "Come here. Please." Under the table, Zura crossed one leg over the other; she was surprised when it didn't hurt. Her chair was at an angle to the table, her arm on the tabletop.
She remembered being called to the table of her foster parents, for difficult — and often heated — discussions. Sometimes it had been truancy, or listlessness, or defiance. Often, it had been for the same reason as she now called Yaella.
After a few moments, the storage area door opened and Yaella emerged. She was avoiding Zura's eyes, so it was hard to tell if she'd been crying. Her shoulders were pulled forward, her head down, and she dragged her feet as she approached.
"Sit," said Zura, pointing at the chair across the table from her.
With the slow scrape of chair legs across the floor, Yaella pulled out the chair and sat. She was hunched so far forward her face was almost at tabletop height. The girl looked like a beaten nirval. Or, thought Zura, one that expected to be beaten.
"So," said Zura. "Tell me what happened."
"I guess the teacher told you," mumbled Yaella.
"Look at me," snapped Zura. It came out more forcefully than she'd intended. Yaella flinched, wide eyes looking up at her.
"Yaella," said Zura, keeping her voice calm and even. "I'm not asking what the teacher said. I want your version. Tell me what happened."
"I guess I hit Shirley."
"You guess?" Zura raised one finger, pointing it at Yaella. "Sit up straight."
Yaella hesitated a moment before she shifted awkwardly in the chair, putting her shoulders back.
"Lift your chin."
The girl slowly lifted her face up toward Zura, biting at her lip as she looked her in the eyes.
"Good. Now, then. I respect people who take responsibility for what they do. So, look me in the eye and tell me what happened."
"I… I punched Shirley." Yaella's voice was less of a mumble as she spoke. "I punched her in the face." The girl hesitated. "Am I in trouble, Mahasa?"
"I invited you to call me Zura; that hasn't changed. Are you sorry you hit Shirley?"
Yaella studied Zura's face; the girl looked like she was weighing her options. At last, she shook her head. "No," she said. "No, I'm not sorry."
"Good," said Zura. "I respect that. You're standing by your choices. Now, why did you hit Shirley?"
The girl's confidence wavered. "She was mean to me," said Yaella, searching Zura's face as if trying to divine her reaction. "A bunch of kids were laughing at me, but she was doing it."
"Doing what?"
The girl's face was pulled tight, her lips quivering, but she lifted her chin a little higher. "She called me a half-breed."
"She called you a half-breed, so you punched her?"
Yaella nodded. "Yes, Zura."
"If words make you react, then whoever can speak can control you. Don't react to words. Don't let people control you." Zura clasped her hands together on the table. "Was hitting Shirley the right thing to do?"
"No, Zura," she said. "Mister Kowarchuk said that violence isn't an answer."
"Nonsense," said Zura, which left Yaella visibly surprised. "Violence is always an answer. It's just a bad answer."
"The teacher said there was never a reason to use violence on someone else."
"Then your teacher never met the Horlan. Listen to me, Yaella: violence is failure. When the fighting starts, it's because everything else has failed. Diplomacy, bar
gaining, threats — it all failed. Sometimes, violence is all we have left to defend what we believe in. But it's still a horrible failure when it comes to that. Do you understand?"
Yaella's forehead wrinkled, and she squinted at Zura. "Not really…"
"Look," said Zura, leaning back in the chair. "Tomorrow, you'll go back to school. If the teacher asks, tell him that we had a talk, and you understand that violence is bad."
"Yes, Zura."
"But," continued Zura, pointing again at Yaella. "I bet Shirley will now think twice about what she says."
"Okay," said Yaella. She smiled a brief moment, before doubt clouded her face once more. "Zura?"
"Yes?"
"Am I a half-breed?"
Zura nodded. "Yes."
The quiver had returned to Yaella's lips. "But I don't know if I'm supposed to be human, or Palani—"
"Who said you had to choose?"
"She said I had no parents—"
"She could get punched for that, too."
"Is it true?"
Zura sighed, and could see that Yaella saw the truth in her hesitation. People deserved to be told the truth if they wanted it, even if it hurt. Especially if it hurt. "Yes, Yaella. You didn't have parents the same way that other people have parents."
Zura could see that it stung, just as she expected. The pain was clearly written on Yaella's face; it filled her eyes with tears. "So… they made me, then didn't want me?"
Zura chewed at her lip. Truth or not, it wasn't easy to see the pain on the young girl's face. "Yes, Yaella."
Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. "Why am I even here? Why am I alive?"
"Yaella," said Zura.
The girl didn't respond.
"Yaella," she repeated, more forcefully. "Sit up straight. Look at me."
Sniffing, Yaella slowly sat up in the chair, her eyes bloodshot, the wet trails of tears streaking her cheeks.
"Look at me, Yaella."
The young blue eyes looked into hers.
"Yaella, it's true… you were created by scientists in a laboratory, for a specific purpose. You didn't fit their purpose, so they gave you away."